


Twelve Days Of Blasphemy

by Euterpein



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 12 Days of Blasphemy Challenge (Good Omens), Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Genitals Are Not Specified (Good Omens), Blasphemy, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Collars, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's Demonic Powers, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Gentle Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hair-pulling, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex, Role Reversal, Rough Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Scene: Paris 1793 (Good Omens), Sexual Roleplay, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:54:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28334199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: (Hopefully) Twelve porny vignettes following the prompts of the 12 Days of Blasphemy Challenge!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 77
Collections: 12 Days of Blasphemy 2020





	1. O Godhead Hid

**Author's Note:**

> I'll put the tags and CWs in the beginning notes for each chapter! There's no connecting plot to these, so feel free to skip around! Original challenge can be found [here](https://twitter.com/Great_Ass_aFire/status/1325188860725223427)
> 
> Full prompt: "Oh Godhead hid, devoutly I adore thee." I obviously went a little bit off the rails with it, lol!
> 
> Chapter tags: Bondage, (good) BDSM, Dom!Aziraphale, oral sex, face fucking, gagging on cock, aftercare, blasphemy. Let me know if I missed any!

The plush fibres of the carpet tickled at the delicate skin of Crowley’s legs. He was grateful for them all the same though, perched on his knees as he was, balancing his weight carefully to keep his blood flowing. He had been told to wait here, arms stiffly tucked up behind him, but not for how long. He needed to make sure he could keep it up for the long haul.

He wasn’t honestly sure where he was. Well, he knew _physically_ where he was. _Physically_ he was in their cottage on the South Downs, likely tucked into one of the little pocket dimensions they sometimes summoned up when they needed a space that the modest house couldn’t accommodate. Beyond that, he had no idea. Aziraphale had fitted him with a blindfold--touched with Grace, no peeking--before leading him in here and leaving him, and despite his other senses working on overdrive to try and identify the location he was...well. He was _in the dark_.

The warmth of a merrily crackling fire had been his only companion for the past thirty minutes or so. Another blessing, because Aziraphale had seen fit to strip him of all but his collar before leaving him to go do whatever it was he was doing. The warmth of it lulled him, a snake basking in the sun, helping him relax despite his vulnerable state.

He had struggled, when they’d first started doing this. He had asked for it-- _craved_ it--but it had taken a long time to let himself be like this. To let Aziraphale take the burden of awareness off his shoulders for a little while, to give unto him every bit of himself. It had taken a long time to trust that at the end of it he would be given back, better and brighter and more secure than he had been before.

One of the muscles in his left leg started to complain about sitting in the same position for too long. It was a mild stiffness that built as the long, quiet seconds passed until it grew into an ache he could no longer ignore. He shifted carefully, lifting himself up further onto his knees and stretching each carefully before settling back onto his haunches, widening his stance to put the pressure on a different part of his leg. That had taken a long time too--that easy adjustment, working with rather than against his body. It was a little thing, but he carried it with the pride of any hard-won thing. 

Another trinket, to lay at the altar of his beloved.

“You’re quite beautiful like this, you know,” came Aziraphale’s voice from behind him.

Crowley nearly jumped out of his skin in his surprise. He hadn’t heard Aziraphale return, hadn’t sensed the disturbance in the aether that usually signalled his arrival. He wondered briefly if Aziraphale had imbued his collar with some kind of magic-dampening effect again, and shivered at the thought.

Aziraphale obviously wasn’t expecting an answer. Crowley listened to the careful tread of his footfalls as he drew closer, shivered again at the soft shift of fabric and the delicate _thwump_ of a jacket being tossed unceremoniously to the ground. “I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing you like this, you know. So relaxed. So...sweet.” 

A soft, warm hand slipped into Crowley’s shoulder-length curls, guiding him to tip his head back. His spine bowed a little to accommodate the position but he went more than willingly, baring his neck, nuzzling into the hand on him just to hear Aziraphale’s soft chuckle at the motion. 

“M’not sweet,” he mumbled, without conviction. 

“You are.” Aziraphale brought his other hand forward to scratch lightly over Crowley’s scalp, then moved downwards. He gave a playful tug to Crowley’s collar--chuckling at the slight gasp that elicited--then ran his hands further down to splay over Crowley’s chest. He was still perched behind him, likely bending over him if the warm breath at Crowley’s temple was any indication, and Crowley bent himself even further to try and coax Aziraphale lower to where his cock was already aching to be touched.

To his disappointment, Aziraphale pulled away almost immediately. Crowley whined softly at the loss of warmth and sensation after so long without touch and Aziraphale shushed him, running a last soothing hand through his hair. Crowley listened as he moved away again, back and to the right. There was the shuffle of fabric again, more clothes joining the jacket, Aziraphale obviously unhurried as he divested himself. The soft _clink_ of a belt being undone made Crowley’s breathing pick up and his mouth start to water against his will--a Pavlovian reaction he had developed not long after the so-called end of the world.

Finally, after what seemed like torturous ages, there came the sound of Aziraphale settling into a chair behind Crowley. “Come here, my dear,” he said. His voice was low, and quiet, but it seemed to echo in Crowley’s head. 

He almost pitched himself over when he started moving too quickly, forgetting for a moment that he couldn’t bring his still-bound arms around to balance him. He caught himself, though, and managed to turn himself and shuffle forward awkwardly on his knees. He followed Aziraphale’s encouraging voice until he felt the warmth of his hand in his hair once again, gently guiding him into a proper position between Aziraphale’s spread thighs. His knees sunk into a thick cushion that had been laid down in front of the chair, and Crowley grinned into his blindfold-induced darkness; he was to be kneeling there a while, then, and _not_ in so comfortable a position as before.

Crowley was hit with a sudden desire to _see_ Aziraphale. He had been in this position countless times before, had the image of what his angel looked like from above him burned into his memory, but he could never get enough.

“Can I see you, angel?” he asked as Aziraphale scratched lazily over his scalp again, petting him like a prized hound.

Aziraphale didn’t pause in his ministrations, but he did hum thoughtfully. “Do you _need_ to see me, or do you _want_ to see me?”

“Want to see you,” Crowley breathed immediately, honest to a fault when he was like this, “Always want to see you, angel.”

That earned him a soft caress, his chin cupped softly in Aziraphale’s hand. “I know, love. For now the blindfold stays on, I think. It’s really quite fetching on you.”

Crowley gave another soft whine of disappointment but didn’t argue. They both knew that if he was _truly_ upset, he had ways of changing the progression of the evening; they both also knew that he wouldn’t use them, not for this. He wanted to see his angel, but that wasn’t the game tonight.

Aziraphale encouraged him to rest his head on his knee for a while, just petting him. Crowley sighed as the short, meticulously maintained nails scratched lightly over his scalp, through his hair. The swirling, circular motions reminded Crowley’s swiftly submerging consciousness of the motions of the planets around the sun.

He had a sudden vision of a ball they had both happened to attend a few centuries before; he’d been a woman at the time, draped in silks and veiled like a widow, and Aziraphale had twirled him around ballroom until all the other dancers had gone home. They had spun like that...

“What are you thinking of, my dear?” Aziraphale asked softly, barely louder than the crackling of the fire. “Not that it’s not lovely to see you smiling.”

Crowley let his smile widen, nuzzled his face even further into the warmth of Aziraphale’s still-clothed thigh. “Was thinking about you. Us. That ball at St. George’s, all those years ago.”

Aziraphale huffed in amusement. “Not sure I follow your train of thought there, my love. I remember that ball, though. It had been centuries since we’d happened upon such a favourable occasion. It was so rare to find an excuse to have you in my arms...” His voice held a hint of sadness for a moment, a lamentation of all the time they had lost. 

“Hey, none of that.” Crowley butted his forehead against Aziraphale’s thoughts again, trying to draw him away from that line of thinking. “You have me now. Always.” Crowley didn’t need to have his eyes uncovered to picture the slow, soft smile that comment would have elicited on his angel’s face. 

Aziraphale said, “I do, at that.” His steady hands gathered Crowley’s head into themselves once again, just holding him in a position where Crowley might have been looking right up into Aziraphale’s eyes if not for the blindfold. His hands dipped lower, then, thumbing over the supple leather of the collar at Crowley’s throat. “And what should I do with you now that I have you, I wonder?”

Crowley whimpered a little, tilting his head back to give Azriaphale full access to his neck. “Anything you like, angel.”

“Anything?” Aziraphale’s voice was almost a purr, half tease and half caress. “That’s quite a gift, my dear. I wonder if I might...” One of his thumbs swiped from Crowley’s cheek across to his lips, hovering close without pressing.

It was a question, an invitation, and one which Crowley accepted immediately. He let his thin, serpentine tongue slip out from between his parted lips and over the thumb, letting out a small hiss at the salty sweetness of it. He drew it into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the pad in the way he knew drove Aziraphale wild, sucking at it triumphantly when it earned him a quiet gasp from Aziraphale above him. 

Aziraphale pulled his thumb away before long, making Crowley whine, but made up for the loss by looping a finger through the collar and pulling him into a kiss. Crowley let out a muffled sound of surprise before it shifted into a moan, the feeling of Aziraphale’s questing tongue at his lips a welcome and familiar sensation.

“So gorgeous like this,” Aziraphale muttered between kisses, holding Crowley in place with the hand on his collar and plundering his mouth relentlessly. “Always so beautiful, my dear, so good--so _good_ for me, Crowley...”

Crowley was helpless to do anything but moan in response. Aziraphale had pulled him up on his knees to the point that he could barely move, head forced back and spine bowed in his supplication. He had no choice but to let Aziraphale take charge, to let his angel take care of him, and he let the overwhelming sensations settle his mind even further into that comfortable, sunken place. 

One of the hands gripping him was pulled away and the distinct sound of a zipper being slid open sounded from just below him. He groaned, feeling his heart skip in anticipation, revelling in the way that Aziraphale was using the kiss to take and take and _take_ in just the way Crowley loved. 

“I’d like to get your mouth on me, if you’re amenable, dear,” Aziraphale said, mild tone a sharp contrast to the iron grip of his hand in Crowley’s hair.

“Yessssss.” Crowley squirmed in Aziraphale’s hold, eager to get started, whining in frustration when he found himself still held firmly in place.

There was a soft rummaging sound and Aziraphale was leaning over him again, forcing him to bend back even further as something was pressed into his hand. Crowley recognized it immediately as one of the rubber ducks from their bath upstairs; it was too unmistakeable a texture and shape to be anything else. He blinked behind the blindfold. “ _Really_ , angel?”

“You’re about to have your mouth full, my dear,” Aziraphale answered him, smirk evident in his voice. “I must make sure you can still let me know if you’re in distress.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” Crowley said, but without much bite. _You’re about to have your mouth full, my dear..._

Aziraphale didn’t deign to answer him. Instead Crowley heard the unmistakable sound of Aziraphale stroking himself just below Crowley’s chin. He groaned again, any further complaints about the rubber duck flown right out the window. His mouth fell open almost on instinct, serpentine tongue flicking out to taste the sweet musk of his angel on the air, wanting nothing more than to get his mouth on him, _now_. 

He didn’t have to wait long. Aziraphale used his grip to guide Crowley forward, lips parted and tongue questing blindly, until he found his goal. They both moaned as Crowley’s lips wrapped triumphantly around the head of Aziraphale’s cock, lapping shamelessly at the precome that had gathered there and as far down the shaft as he could manage.

“Oh, my dear boy,” Aziraphale groaned, finally starting to sound as affected as Crowley felt, “oh, you’re _so_ good--so good to me, Crowley, love, _yes!_ ” His grip in Crowley’s hair tightened again. He moved Crowley’s head up and down, just a little, not quite forcing his cock down Crowley’s throat but firmly and definitively setting the pace. Crowley tried to focus on worshipping his angel’s cock with his tongue and let his throat muscles relax as quickly as he could make them; that and thank his lucky stars that he didn’t actually need to breathe. With his knees spread wide on the cushion for balance and his arms still firmly tied behind his back, he had no leverage whatsoever.

He was also loving each and every _second_ of it. He still wished he could see Aziraphale; his angel was a vision, always, and the view from Crowley’s knees was one of his favourites. Here, kneeling at the altar of his guiding star, this was where he belonged.

A particularly deep slide made Crowley gag a little, his throat convulsing and his lungs burning a little as he fought his way through it. 

“F- _fuck_ ,” Aziraphale gasped. His fingers tightened painfully (wonderfully) in Crowley’s hair as he pulled back and breathed hard for a moment. There was a slight _thud_ that Crowley thought might have been his head hitting the back of the chair. After a few moments of deep, even breathing, he said, “That was--can I do that again, love? Colour?”

“Green,” Crowley answered, without even a pause. His own need was aching between his legs just listening to Aziraphale enjoy himself. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t like the gagging too--it heightened the sense of being _used_ , of being an object for Aziraphale’s pleasure. “Green, angel, _please_ \--”

Aziraphale interrupted him with a fierce, deep kiss that he broke off again almost immediately. “You have your signal if you need it,” he reminded Crowley as he guided him down onto himself once again, letting the fat head of his cock slip past Crowley’s lips with a sigh. He gave a few shallow thrusts, a warm-up or a warning, before making another long slide to the very back of Crowley’s throat and stopping. 

Crowley swallowed around the intrusion, letting himself adjust to the girth of it, feeling the muscles of his throat flutter in nervous anticipation. The iron grip in his hair then pushed forward again, moving with inexorable slowness into his throat at _just_ the wrong (or right) angle. Crowley gagged again, a bitten-off sound, and tried once more to work his way through it.

This time, though, Aziraphale didn’t pull back. He stilled slightly as Crowley sputtered and choked, obviously listening for the squeak of the twice-blasted duck still held in a death grip in Crowley’s bound hand. When it didn’t come he pulled back and pushed forward again, and again, carefully but ruthlessly gagging Crowley on his cock over and over.

Crowley’s head was a jumble of nothing but white noise and _need_. He’d given up trying to fight the intrusion, trying to control his throat muscles or his gagging, and sagged in his bounds. He let Aziraphale move his head however he wanted. The lack of oxygen (strictly necessary or not) and the wonderful, _absolute_ way that Aziraphale was dominating him made his head swim, made him feel almost as though he was floating somewhere above his body. In any other circumstance it might have been frightening; right now, he felt safer than he ever had.

Aziraphale had him.

“Oh, Crowley, love, you’re so--always beautiful, gorgeous, but goodness, you’re just so _wonderful_ , Crowley, my dear, I--” Aziraphale’s babbling barely broke through the haze in Crowley’s mind, but it amplified it somehow anyway. He was being _good_ , he was being _right_ , he was exactly and entirely where he belonged. 

A particularly hard tug at his scalp brought Crowley slightly closer to the surface for a moment. Aziraphale had dispensed with the gagging business and was fucking his face properly now, bringing his head down to meet every upward thrust of his hips, and was doing so with such wild abandon Crowley could sense he was getting close. Some primal instinct beyond his active control had him swallowing reflexively again, working his tongue and his throat as best he could with such a limited range of mobility.

 _Give it to me_ , he thought, aimlessly, _Let me have it all._

Aziraphale made a choked-off noise and let out a long moan, his hips giving a few more frantic thrusts before pushing all the way home. Crowley swallowed him down easily, _greedily_ , going so far as to whine and push forward again when a spent Aziraphale finally pulled him away. 

After a few quiet moments where they both just breathed, slowly and carefully, Aziraphale leaned down and carefully removed the blindfold from Crowley’s eyes. Crowley blinked and almost pulled away, despite the relative dimness of the room. Aziraphale cradled his face in his hands again, though, and smiled down on him. His cheeks were flushed a gorgeous pink from his exertion, his eyes bright. Crowley’s breath caught in his throat all over again.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, quietly. He seemed to be lit only by the fire behind Crowley, the shifting glow casting ethereal shadows onto the stone wall behind him. “Thank you, Crowley, that was--that was wonderful. _You_ were wonderful.” 

Crowley wasn’t sure he could respond to that--he often found words difficult when he was like this, anyway, plus his throat was _burning_ \--so he just closed his eyes and let Aziraphale thumb away the tears he hadn’t been aware of from his cheeks with a satisfied sigh. 

“I’m going to take care of you now, love,” Aziraphale went on in that quiet, reassuring voice, “Would you like that?”

Crowley nodded. Now that he was coming back to his body a little bit he was hit with the full force of his need, of the _ache_ between his legs, and he whined, squirming. 

Aziraphale huffed a laugh. “Don’t worry, darling, we’ll be taking care of _that_ first. And then some tea with honey, I should think.” A quick click of his fingers released the chain between Crowley’s cuffs, allowing him to bring his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders as he was scooped up into his arms. 

Crowley snuggled into the warmth of Aziraphale’s neck as he was carried out of the little pocket universe he’d spent the better part of the day in. He was tired, and his knees and throat were sore, and he felt _absolutely wonderful_. Aziraphale would let him keep the collar and cuffs on a little longer, would let him luxuriate in the feeling as long as he liked.

He wrapped his arms around his angel a little tighter, with no intention whatsoever of ever letting go.


	2. Let My Love Come Into His Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of the Twelve Days of Blasphemy event! 
> 
> Full Prompt: "Let my love come into his garden, and eat his pleasant fruits."
> 
> Tags: Top!Aziraphale, Bottom!Crowley, Aziraphale has a Penis, Crowley has a Vulva, South Downs Era, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex

Things had gotten away from them rather more quickly than either of them had expected.

It was the weather; it had to be. Hot, heavy air had settled over the South Downs and stayed there, settling over the land like a great blanket of warmth, weighing them all down with a feeling of unhurriedness that was difficult to shake. Crowley and Aziraphale’s little slice of the Downs had been no exception. 

It had been Aziraphale that had suggested the little outing; Crowley always drooped in this kind of heat, preferring to spend the morning tending to the chickens and picking the more delicate fruit before moving to the protective shade off the side of the cottage. They had spent many summer afternoons that way, in the years after the end of the world; Crowley dozing happily with his head in Aziraphale’s lap, the latter with one hand in his demon’s hair and the other holding a book aloft. Aziraphale had wanted a change of pace, though, and Crowley had never been one to deny him.

They had packed a little basket with treats from the garden--strawberry jam, fresh bread, slices of apple, honey from Crowley’s hives. They had followed the little path that wound its way across their handful of hectares and up the hill into the orchard. They got the best view from up there. On a clear day like this one, they could see the vast stretches of rolling hills all the way to the chalk cliffs to the south. 

The rare breeze that made its way low across the hills carried with it the scent of honeysuckle and peach, fresh sea air and the sweet, simple perfume of growing things. They had let it wash over them in pleasant quiet as they had spread their blanket beneath the boughs of an old apple tree, one of the few that had been here before they had moved in. Its branches were heavy with fruit, the best Crowley thought he’d tasted so far, the bounty of the season all around as they had settled to the scented earth.

They had shared a pleasant picnic--it was too hot for anything heavy, so they had brought bread and fruit and honey to each others’ lips, bites of sweetness to offset the weighted sensation of the day on their limbs. At some point Aziraphale had pressed a honey-dipped strawberry to Crowley’s lips, had watched the red flesh disappear behind those sinful lips, and had followed it with his own, chasing the taste of it with his own lips pressed to his love’s. 

They had laid their bodies down on the blanket they’d spread beneath them, touches soft and movements unhurried. Crowley had slipped each button of Azirphale’s shirt out of their housings, the better to get his hands on Aziraphale’s wide chest; Aziraphale had repaid the gesture by removing Crowley’s belt with care. 

They had moved together in a rhythm all their own, whispered declarations and embarrassing endearments carried away by the heavy breezes, perfumed with the scent of flowers. Hands had wandered, kisses had been shared.

Aziraphale had peeled Crowley’s trousers off him slowly, carefully, kissing each inch of exposed skin as they were bared to him. He had buried himself between his husband’s legs, drinking in the sweet nectared taste of him. He had only moaned as Crowley had crested again and again, sharp cries and low moans lost to the rustle of the trees above them, unhurried and uninhibited by the scrambling of fingers tugging in his hair.

Finally, finally, he had buried himself in his husband’s willing body, had rocked himself to the sweet song Crowley’s joyous noise, had revelled in them until the both of them were thoroughly and entirely satisfied. 

They had lain there, bare and sticky-sweet and honey-warm, until the sun had grown low in the sky. They had tasted of each other’s bodies and of the fruit of the land until they were satiated. 

And then, they had left the garden, and had followed the path back home. 


	3. Thou Art With Sin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 3 of the Twelve Days of Blasphemy!
> 
> Full prompt: “O make thyself with holy mourning black / and red with blushing, as thou art with sin.” 
> 
> Chapter tags: Top!Crowley, Bottom!Aziraphale, Crowley has a Penis, unspecified genitals for Aziraphale, roleplay/role switching, post-canon, hair pulling, (light) dirty talk

“Angel, angel, angel--!” Crowley couldn’t hold his head up anymore. He let it fall forward, pressed his forehead to the back of Azirpahlale’s sweaty neck, breathing in the earthy scent of him. He’d been draped over Aziraphale’s back in their bed for long enough now that he was beginning to lose his sense of time, beginning to lose everything but how good Aziraphale was making him feel.

Aziraphale reached up and behind himself and gripped his fingers in the curls at the base of Crowley’s neck, tugging at them desperately. “Not an angel tonight, dear, remember?” he panted.

Crowley groaned, equal parts frustration and acknowledgement. His hips were moving on their own, driving forward into the tight heat of his angel’s body without any consideration whatsoever from his poor, fried braincells. He tried to pull the plot back together.

“R-right,” he managed. “A demon, that’s what you are. Naughty, naughty demon.” His hips slammed forward in a particularly vicious thrust that made them both moan aloud, Aziraphale’s grip in his hair tightening until Crowley’s nearly crossed with pleasure.

“Yes!” Aziraphale’s voice was half muffled where his face was pressed into the mattress, but he managed to turn his head and try again. “You--oh!--you’ve caught me, and now you’re--”

Crowley kissed the back of Aziraphale’s neck as his words trailed off into a wordless cry, exploiting that perfect angle that made him dissolve into a puddle every time. “Thwarting you,” he said, almost idly, then with more confidence: “I’m thwarting you, ang--demon, for all your...nefarious deeds.”

Aziraphale let out something that might have been a laugh if he wasn’t nearly insensate with pleasure. “Crowley--love, I’m going to--”

“Do it,” Crowley panted immediately, focusing all his attention on keeping his thrusts steady and strong to work Aziraphale through it. “Go on, er...foul fiend, let my holy power overwhelm you!” He punctuated these last few words with hard, fast thrusts, driving himself into Aziraphale with the kind of fervour only his angel could elicit. 

Aziraphale’s body clenched down around him hard and Crowley gave his own cry, nearly matching the keen that Aziraphale below him was letting out. He kept thrusting as Aziraphale shook beneath him, working them both through it, until his thighs refused to hold him up even a moment longer. Crowley collapsed next to Aziraphale on the bed, sleepy and sticky and sated, and gathered him up in his arms.

Tired blue eyes peered up into his own, the ghost of a smile tugging at those cherubic features. “We’re not very good at this role-play business, are we, dear?’

“Nope,” Crowley said happily. He tucked one of Aziraphale’s wild curls behind his ear. “But we have a Hell of a lot of fun trying.” 

Aziraphale laughed. “That we do, my dear,” he said dreamily, resting his head on Crowley’s chest and letting his eyes drift closed. “That we do.”


	4. Thou Shalt Bind Them For A Sign

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a partial fic--I'm intending to fill the rest out later! Sorry about that, this daily pace is a lot! I'll include a link to the full fic here when I've finished it.
> 
> Original prompt: “And Thou Shalt Bind Them For A Sign Upon Thine Hand, And They Shall Be As Frontlets Between Thine Eyes.”
> 
> Chapter tags: light angst, happy (eventual) ending

Crowley was Marked.

He had been Marked the day he Fell, the day he had been cast out of Her grace and into the pits of Hell. His angelic form had been twisted, burned, corrupted; taken from something beautiful and stretched into something serpentine, into something _dangerous_. 

He carried the Mark of his corruption with him wherever he went; on his skin, when he had skin, on his scales when he didn’t. A being that could see beyond fleshy trappings would find the Mark imprinted on his very soul. It was visible to all onlookers, to all who might seek to divine his intentions or his origins.

He had, from these seekers, nowhere to hide.

As far as he was aware, he was the only one that had been Marked. The other demons carried with them the same corruption, the same sucking void that was the absense of all Her grace, but their souls were free of the burden that had been placed on him by--presumably--Her hand. Even the Morningstar’s soul was unblemished in such a way.

He had, predictably, dedicated a lot of time and thought into why he had been selected for such an _honour_. It had long fed his conviction that his temptation of the humans in the Garden was inevitable; another move in the game of blinded, infinite-plane chess that was the Ineffable Plan. After all, why else would She brand him in such a way? 

It made him the enemy of all, the friend of none. Demons resented and distrusted him for it (more than demons were wont to resent and distrust everything). They didn’t need to know why. They knew only that his Mark had been put there by the hand of God, and that was enough. It wasn’t enough for Heaven, though. Most of God’s angels saw his Mark as an affront, signaling not only his so-called betrayal but also that She had seen fit to touch him personally; an honour not a one of them could claim in turn.

The hatred of fellow demons and angels might not have troubled him too much, considering that he spent most of his time avoiding them both whenever possible. It was the humans’ reactions that brought him more pain. They feared him. They could sense his Marking even when he tried to hide it from them, to use his charm and his wits to overwrite what their own instincts were telling them, could sense that he was not one of them. A snake in the grass. After all, they had learned their fear of serpents from _him_.

There was only one creature in all Creation that didn’t mind his Marking. Aziraphale--Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Principality of Earth, giver of divine flaming swords.

Drinker of cocoa, connoisseur of fine wines.

Stealer of hearts. 

He had seen the snake etched onto Crowley’s skin, onto his soul, and done nothing. He hadn’t trusted Crowley, of course, not in the beginning, but he had warmed to him. Where the demons had only grown colder after his long stint on Earth and the humans had remained about the same, he had warmed to him.

He had become his friend.


	5. Nobles With Fetters Of Iron

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 5! We all love a good Bastille fic, don't we? This one also got seriously away from me and I'm going to post the expanded version later, with a link here you can follow. Stay tuned for the juicy bits ;P
> 
> Full Prompt: “To Bind Their Kings With Chains, and Their Nobles With Fetters Of Iron”
> 
> Chapter Tags: Scene: Bastille, Bondage, could very slightly be interpreted as consensual nonconsent/roleplay because Aziraphale can't actually ask for what he wants due to Heavenly retribution, but consent is made thoroughly and entirely clear. Top! Crowley, Bottom! Aziraphale.

Crowley wasn’t sure what he’d done to deserve this. Either something really good or really, _really_ bad, he was sure, though he still hadn’t quite figured out how karma worked for him vis-a-vis good and evil. All he knew is that he was well and truly _fucked_.

Aziraphale must know how he looked like this, what it did to Crowley. He _must_. Crowley may be the world’s greatest Tempter, but that only meant he could recognize a master at work when he saw one. He didn’t believe the angel’s story about _popping over for some crepes_ for a heartbeat. Aziraphale had pulled some truly ridiculous moves out of his pocket over their long history together, but even he couldn’t be _this_ unaware.

...Could he?

Aziraphale pouted some more, said something else beyond all comprehension. Crowley let his mouth move in response all on its own, not really paying attention to what he was saying, eyes raking over Aziraphale and his ridiculous outfit over and over again. Those fluffy, cloudlike curls. The fine coat that had probably cost more than most people in this city lived on in a year, made by real, human hands despite the fact that he could have miracled something perfectly identical any time he wanted. 

Don’t even get Crowley started on the _shoes_.

And all the while he was perched there on that little stool, prim as anything, batting his distractingly lined eyes at Crowley as he talked. The perfect picture of innocence, all bound up in iron. Crowley’s eyes drifted down to where Aziraphale’s wrists were bound together, the thick shackles nearly eclipsing those immaculate hands as Aziraphale raised them in supplication, and felt his heartbeat a little faster at the sight. 

Aziraphale looked so _good_ like this. In every sense of the word. All wrapped up like a present, or like a particularly delicate patisserie, just asking for someone to come along and take a bite...

“Well?” 

Crowley became aware that the silence had been stretching for a few moments already. Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly, haughty eyebrow raised in his direction. “Er--” Crowley scrambled a little bit, shifting through his memory and trying to shake out what Aziraphale had asked him, but coming up empty. “Sorry, what was that?”

Aziraphale’s already pathetic pout grew even deeper. “Come on, now, Crowley, don’t make me beg. I know you’re a demon, but even you’re not _that_ cruel.”

“Don’t make you--” Crowley sputtered for a moment, the combined mental images of Aziraphale in _that outfit_ and _begging_ making him feel a little lightheaded. He was extremely grateful in that moment for the solidity of the stone walls around him. After only a few moments he managed to catch two braincells from the scrambling jumble that was his thoughts and rub them together, understanding finally dawning on him. “Oh, right! Yes.” 

He scrambled up from the little nook he’d curled himself into (for maximum dramatic effect, of course) and reached a hand out towards Aziraphale’s shackles, already reaching out with his occult senses to harness a bit of power from Below. He brought his fingers together, ready to click, and...

...stopped. 

Aziraphale blinked at him as he stood there, utterly still for a few heartbeats. “Something wrong, Crowley?” He shifted on the stool, glancing nervously around the dingy little cell as though he could hear the guards’ footsteps approaching from down the hallway. (He didn’t, and he wouldn’t until Crowley said so--Crowley’d made very sure of that). 

“You said you came here for crepes, angel?” Crowley said, a little vaguely. His brain was on overdrive, finally catching up to the conversation, running the fast few minutes past his mind’s eye. He was still standing with his hand outstretched, his fingers pressed together.

“Er--yes?” Aziraphale was beginning to look at him with some amount of concern. “Rather foolish of me, I know, but--”

“But you’d _just_ said you’d been reprimanded for miracles.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I...came by ship.”

“In the middle of a revolution?” There was _something_ going on here, Crowley could _taste it_ , but it was just out of reach no matter how hard he tried to grasp at it. “Pull the other one, angel. Even the army can’t get supplies by boat right now, all the harbours’ve been occupied.”

“Well--that is, I--it’s--” Aziraphale was stuttering now, cheeks turning distractingly rosy, “I just thought that--” He stopped, swallowing and looking away from Crowley’s eyes.

All of a sudden, it clicked. “You ‘just thought’ that I’d come to rescue you, didn’t you?” Crowley said, almost not believing it himself. 

Aziraphale, now pretending that something on the ceiling was endlessly fascinating, tilted his head in that way he did when he was trying to explain his way out of something. “I may have...been under the impression that you’d be...in the area.” 

Crowley’s heart was pounding in his chest again, his breath coming harsh and fast to his own ears. “And what,” he stepped closer to where Aziraphale sat, bound and helpless, “were you hoping might happen when I carried out this daring rescue, angel?” He left the question purposefully open, leaving plenty of room for Aziraphale to make his excuses. With every moment that passed Crowley grew more and more sure that he was right; that Aziraphale knew _exactly_ what he looked like and how Crowley would react to it. That he _wanted_ him to.

A quick flash of blue met Crowley’s eyes before darting off again, a dash of fear mixed with something that Crowley could have sworn was desire. Aziraphale cleared his throat nervously. “I expected that I might treat you to some crepes, actually,” he said, meticulously manicured hands bunching and unbunching nervously in his lap. “We are in Paris, after all.”

“That’s not what I asked.” Crowley warred with himself for a fraction of a second, unsure if he was willing to take the risk he was about to take until he was already moving. He pressed himself right into Aziraphale’s space, wrapping his hand around the iron cuffs and tugging on them until Aziraphale was forced to look at him in the eyes again. “I don’t want to know what you _expected_ , angel. I wanted to know what you _hoped for_.” 

He knew it was a risk. He knew that the consequences of their...association, tenuous though it was, terrified Aziraphale. That he had spent much of the past six thousand years denouncing Crowley loudly and publicly to anyone who would listen to try and keep Heaven off his trail. 

He _also_ knew that the way Azirpahale’s breath had spiked and his eyes had grown wide was not even a little out of fear. “Do you want to know what I think, angel?” Crowley drawled, pulling a little tighter on the shackles until Aziraphale was forced to bend his forward slightly to accommodate the stretch. 

“D-do tell, dear boy,” Aziraphale stammered. Now that he’d been forced to meet Crowley’s eyes he didn’t seem to be able to pull them away, seemingly almost mesmerized by them. 

Crowley let a grin unfurl its way across his face. Aziraphale hadn’t objected, hadn’t even tried to pretend as though he was upset my the situation he found himself in, trussed up and at the mercy of a demon. The thought made his fingers _itch_. “I think you _wanted_ this to happen.” Crowley took another risk and brought a slightly pointed fingernail to Aziraphale’s temple, running it slowly down the side of the angel’s face just short of those plump, pursed lips. “I think you were hoping I’d find you here, all wrapped up for me like a pretty little present, and that I’d take the opportunity to... _unwrap_ you.” He let the nail dig into that soft, supple flesh, just enough to sting without doing anything close to any real damage.

Aziraphale shivered, his eyes falling half-closed, and Crowley knew he’d won.


	6. Union

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 6! I'm behind, which I apologize for, but I'm determined to finish this out even if I don't get them all out on time. Wish me luck!!
> 
> Full prompt: “I deserve, but to give me, oh! Such a mark of love--union with thyself! Can this be?”
> 
> Chapter tags: top!Crowley, bottom!Aziraphale, riding, Crowley has a Penis, unspecified genitals for Aziraphale, blasphemy (like a LOT)

It was a funny thing, love.

It had a way of doing funny things to a person’s mind, to a person’s behavior. It made them think things they might never otherwise have thought. It made them wish for things--thrilling, impossible things--that might never have even occurred to them if it had not been there.

 _Dangerous_ things.

Aziraphale was made of love. His very being had been woven from threads of Her being, her holy love; it thrummed through every fibre of his being. He had been baptised in it, had breathed it. It had created him; it had corrupted him.

No-- _no_. It had been the others that had been corrupted. He knew that now. It had taken him a long time to see it, and had very nearly been too late by the time the reality of the situation had truly dawned on him, but he had come to accept it in the end.

He was made of God’s love, but it was not Her love that burned through him now. 

His hands made their way up the warm, shifting planes of Crowley’s chest, tangling in the fire-red curls there and then up, over his heart. Crowley was breathing fast, his chest rising and falling in quick succession beneath Aziraphale’s hands. His heart beat a staccato rhythm against feeling fingertips.

Aziraphale was struck again by Crowley’s beauty; his sharp angles and yellow eyes, almost glowing in the warm lamplight, the dull copper of his hair. He looked at once the same as the demon Aziraphale had met on the wall all those aeons ago and yet completely different. Humanity had changed him; had aged him in a way the ravages of time never could. Aziraphale took in every wrinkle and so-called imperfection with a rapture that bordered on the heretical.

Crowley threw his head back, making a dull _thunk_ as it hit the headboard behind him. The hands on Aziraphale’s hips tightened, a warning and a plea, as he encouraged Aziraphale to move himself up and down at an even more frenzied pace.

Aziraphale leaned forward and laid a kiss at the corner of that slack mouth, drank in the gasps and cries spilling forth from that font as though it were the life-water that might sustain him. Perhaps, in a way, it was.

“Angel,” Crowley gasped, right against Aziraphale’s lips, “I’m gonna-- _please_ , angel, I--”

Aziraphale interrupted him with another deep kiss. He wound his arms around Crowley’s neck and used the leverage it gave him to lift himself up and lower himself down with even more force than before, a frenzy of heat and movement and of endless, dizzying passion. Crowley sang sweet music into his mouth, honeyed words and bitten-off curses like hymns in the quiet air.

Another warning, more whispered encouragements, and Crowley was spilling into him, digging sacrificial bruises into Aziraphale’s hips as he took his sweet pleasure. Aziraphale watched with yet more rapturous enjoyment. Crowley was a always a thing of beauty, but when he was so overtaken with pleasure that he was lost to all other sense Aziraphale thought he was beyond exquisite. 

He was _divine_. 

When the ecstasy had drained from Crowley’s eyes he smiled up at Aziraphale, almost shy, even after all this time. “Let me,” he said, and laid Aziraphale carefully beside him upon silk sheets. He kissed him with a gentleness that made Aziraphale’s heart ache in his chest, made his love spill out and run over until he thought it might have been felt all the way from Heaven.

 _Let them feel it_ , he thought. He had no desire to hide it, now.

Crowley took him apart with lips and teeth and tongue, with fingers pressed close between his legs. He rubbed and stroked and caressed until Aziraphale was shaking, was undone, still clinging to Crowley’s shoulders like they could bear all the weight of the world upon them. There, then, at least they could bear the weight of his own.

Afterwards they lay together, bodies curled into one another, warm skin and warm breaths mingling between them. They talked, a little, about small things, about the weather and the garden and the antics of the neighbor’s cunning housecat. Any other angel might have called them trivialities; to Aziraphale, they were everything. 

They were everything because they were _his_. Or, more accurately, _theirs_ ; they were the trappings of the life he had built together with Crowley. The two of them had entered into this new Arrangement with eyes wide open and hearts guarded but full. It was a small, simple life, but it was the whole and the end of his world.

Because Aziraphale might have been built of God’s love, but this? 

This was built of the love of an angel, and of a demon. 

Aziraphale stroked soft fingers through Crowley’s curls where his love’s head was pillowed on his chest. He looked down at his world, and he saw that it was Good.


	7. To Drink of Spiced Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day 7! I got a little carried away with this one lol, but it is a complete work at least!
> 
> Full Prompt: “I would cause thee to drink of spiced wine of the juice of my pomegranate.”
> 
> Chapter tags: Top!Aziraphale, Bottom!Crowley, kink negotiation, rough sex, Crowley uses his demonic powers on Aziraphale (with explicit and enthusiastic consent), slight roleplay, bruises, biting, both have penises, post-canon, slight loss of control, aftercare

“You’re really sure about this, angel?” 

Crowley’s voice was laced with anxiety. It had been since Aziraphale had first suggested this, bold on wine and drunk on love, and they had talked about it. He had been hesitant, but not hesitant enough not to have the conversation.

Aziraphale held in a small, exasperated sigh. He gathered Crowley’s thin, delicate hands in his own and looked right into his lover’s eyes, steady and solid. “I’m sure, Crowley. We’ve been over it a hundred times. I know what to expect; you’ve been very thorough. I want it. I want _you_.”

“You know you have me, angel,” Crowley mumbled, a little hesitantly, still grappling with expressing himself so openly. “And you know it’s not--you don’t _have_ to, you know. Even under the influence. It’s not a _compulsion_ , it’s a...it’s a...” 

“It’s a Temptation.” Aziraphale leaned over to plant a kiss directly underneath each of Crowley’s eyes, a gesture that never failed to distract him. “I know, Crowley. If I don’t actually want it I can walk away. And I know that you might not, but _I_ trust you to stop me if things go sideways. I’m very sure, as long as it’s something you want.”

Crowley swallowed. There was still some uncertainty in his expression, but Azriaphale’s assurances seem to have gone some way towards putting his fears to bed. “I do,” he admitted, quietly, “I have for...a long time. Too long.”

“I have too.” Aziraphale gave him a soft smile again, letting it widen as Crowley gave him a tentative quirk of the lips back. “And isn’t that what retirement is all about? Getting to do the things you always wanted but never could?”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but the smile was persistent. “Pretty sure that usually means buying expensive cars you won’t drive and traveling cross-country in a caravan, angel. Not...this.”

“Well,” Aziraphale said happily, letting one of his hands slip from the small of Crowley’s back down over the slight swell of his arse, “To each their own, then.”

“To each their own,” Crowley repeated with another exasperated eyeroll, and leaned down to kiss him again.

\-----------------------

The jingle of the bell above the door was oddly loud in the after-hours hush of the bookshop. 

Aziraphale looked up from the manuscript he’d been pouring over for the better part of the evening, peering curiously into the darkness beyond the circle of lamplight at his desk. “Hello?” he called, hesitantly. It was most definitely after hours, but that didn’t mean much--it wouldn’t be the first time he’d left the door unlocked on accident and dealt with some desperate or unsavoury character wandering in during the early hours of the morning.

 _“Hello, angel_.” 

Aziraphale shivered. The voice-- _Crowley’s_ voice, he could tell--had come from the front of the bookshop, and had been...different. It was quiet, barely above a whisper, and yet it had felt almost _tangible_ , the ghost of a caress against his skin.

“Crowley?” he said. He stood from his desk, nearly tripping over himself in the process. His feet felt heavy, somehow, clumsier than normal. “Crowley, what are you--why are you here?” He puttered along the bookshop’s wooden floor and through the stacks towards the front.

What he found made him stop cold.

Crowley was standing in the middle of the bookshop proper, spinning Aziraphale’s ancient globe idly with the tip of one long, tapered finger. He was dressed in his usual manner, or the one he’d favoured a variation of for the last few decades: the tight black trousers, yes, and a t-shirt whose hemline dipped down so low that he could feast his eyes on the sharp lines of Crowley’s clavicles. He’d traded out his usual silver scarf for a long necklace of molten gold, its delicate chain following the dip of his throat and flowing over the shirt, drawing Aziraphale’s eyes ever downwards. It was matched by delicate gold bands at Crowley’s wrists, at his ears.

Aziraphale took all of this in breathlessly for a few moments, finding it difficult to tear his eyes away from the striking figure before him. Remembering himself, he started, “A-and to what do I owe the honour of your company tonight, my--” His eyes met Crowley’s, and the words died in his throat.

Crowley’s eyes had always been charming-- _captivating_ , he might even have admitted, but this was something else entirely. Crowley was staring at him, unblinking, and his yellow eyes seemed almost to glow in the dim light spilling through the windows from the street.

“I wanted to see you, angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale shivered again. This close, the strange sensation he’d felt earlier was even stronger. He didn’t seem to be surprised by Aziraphale’s odd behaviour. “I thought I’d...drop by.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale managed, though even that choked-off word took a nearly herculean amount of effort on his part. It wasn’t really sufficient as an answer to Crowley’s statement, but again Crowley looked unsurprised. 

Crowley took a step towards him, moving around the globe with a smooth swing of his hips that Aziraphale felt deep in his very bones. He found that his throat felt terribly dry all of a sudden. 

“Hard at work again, I see,” Crowley nodded towards the desk, at the little bubble of light and safety Aziraphale had left behind. He was standing closer, now. Close enough to reach out and touch.

Aziraphale dug his nails into his palms, and gave a nod. “New manuscript,” he said, his voice sounding scratchy and deep to his own hears, “From a-an Abbey up north.”

“Hmm.” Crowley hummed in mild acknowledgement, stepping ever closer. He stopped when he reached the spot where Aziraphale stood. His eyes tracked down Aziraphale’s throat, over his chest, down his arms to where Azirapahle was gripping at his own skin. “You work too much, you know, angel. You should... _relax_ more.” His voice dripped with honey, a sweet-sharp whisper, and Aziraphale barely suppressed a whimper. Crowley’s perfume washed over him, a delicate and spicy musk.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he managed, though he was practically panting. He wanted so _desperately_ to reach out, to grab Crowley and crowd him up against the nearest bookshelf, to bite and scratch and bury himself so deep in him that his twice-damned perfume would never leave his nose. He wasn’t sure what had come over him--he’d always wanted Crowley, sure, had always _craved_ him, but never had these urges felt to close to the surface as they were now.

Crowley seemed determined not to help his self-control. He reached a hand up to trace the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, scraping lightly through the shadow of a beard Aziraphale had been indulging in since his retirement from Heaven’s rather stringent dress code. “Seems a shame, you know,” Crowley mused, letting his finger linger on Aziraphale’s skin, “You, pouring over that desk day and night. You’re a Heavenly warrior, after all. All that strength,” his hand dropped down to the front of Aziraphale’s shirt, toying too idly at the fitting of a button, “all that... _power_ might be better put to use elsewhere, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale snapped.

In the space of a single heartbeat he had Crowley’s wrists pinned above him, his full weight pressing Crowley into the shelves behind him. He breathed for a moment, trying to catch up to the roller coaster of sensations and emotions rushing through him, but Crowley didn’t let him dwell for long.

“I see you agree with me, then.” He looked like the cat that had got the cream, smug and satisfied at Aziraphale’s lapse of control. 

“I’m--sorry,” Aziraphale said, though he was apparently unable to loosen his own grip. He was mortified, truly _mortified,_ that this was happening. He had wanted this for so long, and now that it was within his grasp he found he was entirely unable to stop himself from _taking_ it. 

Crowley’s grin widened. “Don’t be.” He leaned down until his lips were a fraction of an inch from Aziraphale’s own, his warm breath tickling at the fine hairs on Aziraphale’s skin. “I can feel you, angel. That _holy sword_ you’ve got pressing into my thigh. I can taste your lussst...” 

He couldn’t have said who tipped the scales; which of them gave in first and dove forward to bring their lips together. Aziraphale rather suspected it was himself, but he wasn’t able to dwell on the shame of it long. Crowley was sweet ambrosia in his mouth, his tongue a warm weight against his own. He yielded easily as Aziraphale crowded him even more, dominating the kiss, unable to get close enough. 

Aziraphale felt as though he were burning up. He had a terrible fever within him and every touch from Crowley was the stoke of a bellows, fanning the flame higher until he thought he might simply combust. 

“Yessssssss.” Crowley pulled away from the kiss and threw his head back, letting Aziraphale attack the long column of his throat with a ravenous hunger that was sure to leave bruises there the next day. “That’s right, angel, _take_ me...”

Aziraphale growled low in his throat. He didn’t need to be told twice. With a thought the world had shifted around them and Crowley fell backwards on the bed, groaning as Aziraphale pinned him to the bed before he could even get his bearings. 

“Not going to go slow,” Aziraphale warned between vicious kisses to Crowley’s neck, his chest. “Can’t. You’re so _delicious_ , darling, I can’t--I need--”

“Do it, angel.” Crowley shifted beneath him, a sinuous motion that made their cocks rub together, making them both moan. “Go on, give it to me. You know you want to...” 

Aziraphale _did_ want to. Patience was beyond him at the moment, so he clicked his fingers again, grinning a little wildly when Crowley gasped beneath him. He guided himself to Crowley’s entrance, holding himself back only long enough to assure himself that he was slick and ready before pushing slowly inside.

He might have said that being inside Crowley’s body was Heaven, if he hadn’t been there. It was certainly _paradise_ , whatever that meant, and his eyes nearly rolled back in his head with pleasure as he made short, abortive little thrusts until he had seated himself firmly within.

Crowley finally seemed to be nearly as affected as Aziraphale had been from the beginning. His cheeks were nearly as deep a crimson as his hair, his head thrown back and his mouth wide open with his own ecstasy. Aziraphale took the liberty of attacking his throat again as he started moving, offering no rest or breathing room for either of them. 

He could feel himself rapidly losing cohesion; his self-control, which had been tenuous from the moment he’d heard Crowley’s voice drifting through the bookshelves, was at its most frayed end, and he was afraid that it could snap at any moment. His hips seemed to be moving of their own accord, thrusting down into Crowley with a violence he had never really imagined himself capable of. Not that Crowley seemed to mind. His rapturous cries of “Yes, angel, _yes_ \--!” were echoing to the point that they must have been audible from the street below.

The thought only made him thrust harder. 

He swiftly lost track of how long they stayed like that, the frenzy of their coupling making time all but meaningless as it stretched and broke around them. It might have been minutes and might have been long hours for all either of them were aware. Crowley moaned and writhed and twisted in his grip, the heels of his feet digging gloriously into the small of Aziraphale’s back as he encouraged him to go ever faster, take him ever harder. 

Aziraphale’s muscles burned and his breath came out harsh in the close air of his bedroom. The whole world had narrowed down to just this moment, to the body beneath him and the endless, consuming void of desire to _have_ , to _take_ , to keep going until he had been sated and satisfied.

Finally, _finally_ , Crowley’s body stiffened beneath his own. His inner walls clamped down on Aziraphale _hard_ and they both moaned. 

“Don’t you dare stop--don’t-- _angel_!” Crowley cried, his back arching violently upwards against Aziraphale’s weight as he spilled over himself in the space between them. Aziraphale bit at his mouth as he chased the sensation, working Crowley through his own orgasm and rolling vigorously over into his own, biting down hard into the flesh of Crowley’s shoulder as his thrusts grew ever more erratic and finally stopped, holding himself flush to Crowley’s body as he spilled himself inside.

\-----------------

“Are you sure I didn’t hurt you, love?” Aziraphale asked, apprehensively. It was his turn to be anxious, it seemed, in the aftermath of their scene. 

Crowley stirred lazily, stretching with languid slowness under the warm water of their clawfoot tub. He had bruises blooming along the stretch of his pale skin already. “You did,” he drawled, grinning up at Aziraphale, “and I loved every second of it, angel. Pretty sure half the neighbourhood could confirm that at this point.” He tilted his head towards Aziraphale, transparent pleading look in his eyes.

Aziraphale huffed a haughty acknowledgement at that, giving in easily to Crowley’s unspoken request for Aziraphale to run his fingers through his short hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. Crowley melted at the touch, as boneless and satisfied as a cat in a patch of sun. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, then,” Aziraphale went on. “I’ll admit it was a bit more-- _overwhelming_ \--than I expected it to be. I felt as though if I didn’t get my hands on you that _second_ I might combust. If I hadn’t known what was happening I would have been frightened at myself, I think.”

“I did give you more of it than I would’ve done a human,” Crowley admitted, letting his eyes droop closed at Aziraphale’s gentle attentions. “Usually ‘s more...subtle.” 

“I should hope so.”

Crowley opened one eye a fraction to peer up at Aziraphale, lazily curious. “And wha’ ‘bout you, angel?”

“What about me?” Aziraphale suppressed the urge to lean down and press a kiss to the tip of Crowley’s nose; he was just so _cute_ like this, blissed out and sluggish, but he’d never forgive the injury to his demonly pride.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

Aziraphale allowed himself a moment of surprise. “I should have thought that was quite clear, my love. I wasn’t exactly...quiet about it either.”

“Yeah, but ‘s nice to hear you say it.”

Aziraphale could resist temptation no longer. He leaned down and laid a gentle kiss to the very tip of Crowley’s nose. It earned him a half-hearted hiss in retaliation, but it was a mark of just how worn out Crowley was that a hiss was all he could muster up.

“I enjoyed myself very much,” Aziraphale admitted, with feeling. “Thank you, Crowley. I know you were nervous about this, using a demon’s ability on me. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Crowley’s expression softened for a few solid moments, then turned sour. “Shut up and carry me to bed,” he said, all false grumpiness.

“With pleasure, my love,” Aziraphale answered, smiling, and stood to take Crowley in his arms once again. 


End file.
